The itch of disputing will prove the scab of churches

I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff.

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the sun shall rise?

How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Who God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than gifts to send, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend.

Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

Love lodged in a woman's breast Is but a guest.